


Penance

by zelda_zee



Series: Sacrament [1]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Self-Flagellation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3597141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis follows through on the course of action he decided on at the end of <i>Trial and Punishment</i>.</p><p>Please note: this fic contains spoilers for Episode 2.10. It begins after the ending of that episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penance

For a long time, Aramis felt naked without the weight of sword and pistol at his waist. The plain, gray cassock that he wore seemed insubstantial compared to his favorite leather coat and the cape of a Musketeer.

He did not speak. It was his penance, but also his refuge. There was so very much that he did not wish to talk about, and so very much of which he could not speak. He could not confess his sins. The risk was too great, even in this holy and sanctified place. He had come within a hair's breadth of death and had brought the Queen and their son with him. Marguerite’s suicide weighed upon him, and he longed for the solace of absolution, but he did not dare. It was agony to carry the burden of his misdeeds without the relief of God’s forgiveness, but no more than he deserved.

He spent his days doing whatever work he was assigned. Whether he was cleaning the latrine or sweeping the floor made no difference to him. He tried to keep his mind empty to make room for God. But he could not feel God's presence, no matter how hard he prayed or how long he fasted.

At night, he dreamed of death. Anne would come to him in her loveliness and he would try to rise to meet her, only to find he was tied to the Wheel, and Rochefort would be there, a club in his hands. Or he would be back at Savoy, surrounded by corpses in the woods. Or later, watching Marsac die by his hand. He would wake with a start and kneel on the hard floor of his cell and recite the rosary, mouthing the words soundlessly in the dark.

He was plagued with lust. Not for any one person, but as though his body was in collusion with the sinful impulses that fueled his discontent. At prayer, at work, lying awake on his cot at night images would chase through his mind – naked women, and men, engaging in every type of sexual act imaginable. The urge to take himself in hand was overwhelming. He resisted, but he did not know how much longer he would last. He half-imagined the devil sent these visions to torment him, but he knew it was only his own ungovernable mind that was to blame.

Weeks went by and as the incident of his near-execution grew more distant the abbey began to feel more like a prison. He could not breathe for the confinement and the boredom. The monks irritated him with their ignorance and petty concerns. He had to bite his tongue not to snap at them, he had to discipline himself every day not to walk out the gate. Only his vow kept him there, when every part of him rebelled against his circumstances. He would not break his vow. The remainder of his life was to be lived within the walls of the abbey and, somehow, he must find a way to bear it.

He prayed for hours on end. His knees were perpetually bruised from the rough, stony floors. He fasted until he was nothing but hunger and then longer, until the hunger disappeared. But nothing came to take its place and fill the emptiness inside him.

Finally, he cut a switch of willow, and that brought him relief where nothing else had. The pain calmed him and quieted his mind. When he prayed afterward, it came very close to having meaning, closer than it had in a long time. Whipping himself tamed his lust, or expiated it, or beat it into bloody submission for a time. The few moments after he stopped were the best, his body so filled with needle-sharp pain from the welts that there was no room for anything else – no lust, no thought, no regret.

And so it went, day after day. Aramis prayed to God for patience, for meekness, for obedience. God did not seem to hear him, or if He did, He was not inclined to accede to his wishes.

He was planting seeds in the garden the day they arrived. The seeds were very small and the garden was very, very large. Aramis’ joints ached and his hands and feet were filthy and the wounds on his back stung and pulled with every movement. It was windy and the air carried enough moisture to make his robes cold and damp and he felt like he was catching a chill. Anger and self-pity rose up in him and he pushed them down with a vehement prayer, only to have them resurface a moment later.

He stopped, kneeling motionless on the ground, overwhelmed by the fruitlessness of his efforts. He would never be a monk. He was a sinner and a libertine and a seducer. He took joy in mayhem and violence and loved nothing more that the feeling of a gun in his hand. He missed Paris, and wine and gambling and every manner of revelry and debauchery that he once engaged in. He missed his friends like the longing of an amputee for a missing limb. He missed d’Artagnan’s bright smile and the way Athos understood him without words and Porthos – he missed everything about Porthos. He ached with their absence more than he ached from the absence of God, and that was the worst sin of all.

There was no hope for him. He was surely damned.

Tears stung his eyes and he raised a trembling, dirt-smeared hand to wipe them away.

“Dammit,” he swore, the first word he had spoken aloud in months.

“Now is that any way for a man of God to talk?” said a voice, an unmistakable voice, one that Aramis would know anywhere.

He stumbled to his feet, whirled around, almost losing his balance, shaky as he was from lack of food. Porthos’ wide smile disappeared as his eyes swept Aramis from head to foot. Behind him, d’Artagnan’s and Athos’ faces also reflected surprise at the sight of him.

Abbot Duclos stood beside them. He must have brought them into the garden in search of him and he was now watching Aramis with narrowed, thoughtful eyes.

“My God, Aramis, you look like shit!” Porthos exclaimed, and Aramis winced, careful to avoid looking in the abbot’s direction.

Porthos strode toward him, and how in the short time of their separation had Aramis managed to forget how much space he took up in the world? Ever since they'd met Porthos had made up such a large part of Aramis' life, it’s no wonder his absence hurt so keenly.

Porthos was right before him, looking into his face and wearing a familiar frown. “Your hair,” he said in wondering disapproval, reaching out to touch the short bristle that covered Aramis scalp, then lightly tugging on his long, full beard. “I guess it’s all here now.”

Aramis smiled weakly and shrugged.

“The abbot said you don’t speak.”

Aramis nodded once, gazing up into Porthos’ face, drinking him in. He wouldn’t stay for long and Aramis wanted to remember every little thing.

Porthos stepped closer and opened his arms, and then he waited, an uncertain look upon his face, and it struck Aramis how odd it was. Porthos didn’t hesitate. Never before had he doubted that he would be welcome to anything he wished of Aramis.

So Aramis stepped forward and Porthos swept him into an all-encompassing embrace, holding him tightly, and Aramis gasped as his back flared into fiery pain.

“What is it?” Porthos asked, holding Aramis from him. “Are you injured?” But Aramis just shook his head and stepped into Porthos’ arms again and this time Porthos was careful, holding him gently. Even that made Aramis flinch, though he was careful to conceal it. Porthos felt so warm and good and right. Aramis sighed to be held after so long with no physical contact at all. A quiet moan escaped him and he melted into Porthos, resting his head in the crook of Porthos' shoulder and clinging unabashedly for the space of a minute.

“Aramis, what’ve you let them do to you?” Porthos whispered with a catch in his voice. Aramis just pressed his face into Porthos’ neck for a second, then drew back.

He turned to Athos, who embraced him carefully, murmuring, “It is good to see you, my friend,” and to d’Artagnan who copied Porthos’ and Athos’ embrace, holding him only lightly.

“We missed you,” d’Artagnan said. “I missed you.” Then brightening, “Constance and I got married!”

Aramis smiled, and it felt strange, and he realized that he had not smiled since well before he arrived at the abbey. He took d’Artagnan’s face in his hands and kissed him on his forehead. “We missed you at the wedding,” d’Artagnan said. "Constance sends her love. Oh, and Athos is Captain now!”

“Treville is Minister of War,” Athos explained. “This time he wisely accepted the promotion. And for some reason known only to himself he put me in charge.”

Aramis gave him a look. It was obvious to any and all that Athos was suited to command. It was only Athos who could not see it.

“Why don’t you talk?” Porthos broke in, concern and confusion etched across his features. “And why’re you so skinny? Don’t they feed you here?” He turned to the abbot. “What’s wrong with him? Why’s he lost so much weight?”

“He fasts often,” Abbot Duclos said. “It is his choice. We do not impose it, or anything else, upon him.”

“Anything else?” Porthos’ eyes narrowed, moving between the abbot and Aramis. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Aramis said nothing and the abbot only folded his hands and said, “Brother Aramis, these men have something of great urgency to tell you.”

Aramis’ breath stuttered, his heart suddenly beating double-time. Had something happened to his son? What else would bring his friends here in this way?

“We are at war,” Athos said, cutting into Aramis’ thoughts. “The king in his wisdom has declared war on Spain. Your duty is now with France. When we leave here we ride directly for the border.”

“We want you to come with us,” d’Artagnan said hopefully. “We’ve come to get you.”

Aramis felt a surge of joy and gratitude, until he remembered his vow. His duty was no longer to France, but to God.

“Aramis,” Porthos said, clasping his shoulder. “You’ve had your time to…” He gestured vaguely. “Grieve, or think, or whatever it is you’ve been doing while you’ve been shut away here.” He gazed intently into Aramis’ eyes, speaking softly and slowly. “But now it’s time for you to come back to us. We want you at our side.”

It was impossible, no matter how much Aramis wished it wasn’t. He could not leave, he was bound to this life now. He envisioned himself smiling, clapping Porthos on his back, saying, _And I will be there, fighting beside you_. But he shook his head, certain that the regret he felt was all too obvious.

Another sin. He should be thankful to stay behind and devote himself to God.

“Come to the abbey.” The abbot addressed all of them. “The brothers will feed you and look after your horses.”

“We don’t have time,” Athos said. “We must ride to meet the army.”

“You have time for a meal,” Abbot Duclos said in a tone that brooked no disagreement. “And I must speak with Brother Aramis.”

At the abbey, the others were led away toward the kitchens while Abbot Duclos and Aramis turned the opposite way down the corridor, toward the abbot’s office. Aramis looked back, wanting just to see his friends once more in case he was not allowed back in their company. Porthos had stopped and was watching him, brows lowered in a discontented frown. Their eyes met and Aramis gave him a nod, then turned to follow the abbot.

“I had planned to speak to you soon, my son,” Abbot Duclos said, once he had closed the door to his office behind them. “But the arrival of your friends has precipitated matters.”

Aramis stomach tightened in anticipation of the abbot’s next words, though he didn’t know if it was dread or excitement he felt.

The abbot smiled at him, nodding in acknowledgment. “I see you know what I am going to say. It is not a shock to you, for you know as well as I that you do not belong here.”

Aramis made a helpless gesture, _I’ve tried_ and _Please_ and _I don’t know what else I can do_.

“I know that you have tried very hard and that your desire is sincere,” Abbot Duclos said. “And I am sure that God knows it as well. But you are not ready, Aramis.” It did not escape Aramis’ notice that the abbot neglected to preface his name with “Brother” this time. “You are not even close to ready.”

Aramis hung his head, consumed by a mixture of shame and relief and shame at feeling relief.

“God calls each of us in different ways and at different times in our lives.” Aramis looked up to find the abbot watching him with a great deal more understanding than one would expect from a man who had lived so much of his life in isolation from the world. “I do not believe that He has called you to this life yet. His purpose for you now is to yet live in the world, and to make your way through it, and in doing so, someday you will find your way to Him.” He reached out and took Aramis’ hands in his. “And when you do, we will welcome you back, should you desire to return. But for now, you must be on your way. How glad I am your friends have arrived so that you may go with them, and not be alone as you rejoin the world of men.”

Aramis looked into the abbot’s eyes and felt his own fill with tears.

“In all the time you have been here, you have not gone to Confession,” Abbot Duclos said. “Until you do, you will not feel whole again.”

Aramis swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

“Your belongings have been left in your room,” the abbot said. “You may go there and change into them, and then you must leave.”

“Thank you, Father Abbot,” he said haltingly, the words scratching as they came out of his throat. “Thank you, for everything.”

“Go with God, my son,” the abbot said, making the sign of the cross over him.

Aramis stood, his legs shaking. In a daze he walked to the door and into the corridor, making his way to his cell. There, all his belongings had been laid out for him – his coat and hat, his boots, even his stockings and smallclothes, washed and neatly folded. His weapons were there as well, and he stared at them for a moment, wondering whether he could even bring himself to wield them again.

Numbly, he dressed, moving as if in a dream. His clothes felt strange and heavy, and there were so many of them, layer upon layer. They hung on him loosely, trousers hanging low on his hips, his belts needing another hole to fit him properly. The weight and constriction made the pain in his back wake up, stinging fiercely. He focused on it and breathed and let it settle his mind.

When he finally had his coat belted on as best he could, he reached for his pistol. The stock fit his hand perfectly, smooth and warm, inherently satisfying. He held it up, sighting down the barrel, his muscles remembering the position without his mind needing to tell them. He tucked it in his belt, and then his sword, and placed his hat on his head. He had a bag with a few possessions in it – his Bible, an extra set of smallclothes, his Rosary – he had nothing else.

He stood in the doorway of the small room, looking at the narrow cot, the table, the simple cross on the wall. In this place he had prayed and wept and suffered. He had tried to give himself to God and failed. Father Abbot was right to make him leave; he would have made a terrible monk.

But he was afraid to go back into the world. He did not know if he was any better able to live a good life than he had been when he arrived at the abbey. How would he ensure that his selfish and vain nature wouldn’t get the better of him again? How could he know that he wouldn’t destroy more lives or bring the people he loved into danger by some thoughtless act? He wasn’t in control of himself yet; in many ways his impulses and desires were driving him as much as ever.

He would just have to try to be a better person. There was no alternative.

His friends were seated at a small table in a room off the kitchen where the brothers who cooked their meals normally ate. There was a demolished fowl of some sort on the table and the remainder of some greens and carrots and an empty bottle of wine. They were speaking quietly and Aramis could not hear them over the clatter of pots in the adjacent room. He stood and watched them unnoticed, filled with gratitude that they had thought to come for him.

“Aramis!” d’Artagnan said, rising from the table. He took in Aramis’ clothes, the bag he carried in his hand and his face broke into a smile. “You’re coming with us!”

Porthos and Athos rose as well. Athos came over and clasped his arm. “I am glad,” he said.

Porthos just put his arms around Aramis, carefully this time.

“Have you eaten?” d’Artagnan asked. “We, uh.” He looked at the remnants of their lunch. “We didn’t leave much for you, I’m afraid.”

Aramis waved a hand. He hadn’t eaten in several days, and he didn’t need to start again now.

“Are you well enough?” Athos asked, reaching for his hat and gloves.

Aramis nodded, then wet his lips. He took a breath and forced words out around the constriction in his throat. “I’m ready to go, if you are.”

Porthos' approving smile was almost enough recompense for ending his months of silence.

“Then we ride for the border,” said Athos.

“And for glory,” added d’Artagnan.

“And to kick some Spanish ass!” exclaimed Porthos, laughing.

Their horses were waiting for them. Aramis climbed up behind Porthos, put his arms around him, thankful for his solidity and strength when Aramis himself was feeling so unsteady. Porthos urged his mount to a trot and they clattered out of the gate.

Aramis looked behind him at the abbey as they picked up speed, watching it until they rounded a bend and it disappeared from view, and then he sighed and closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting against Porthos’ back as their horse's hooves beat out the rhythm, _to war, to war, to war_.


End file.
